A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 77: With All Due Ceremony

By the time she reached the center of the room, Tom was already there.

He hadn't approached her—of course not. He was too practiced for that. But he was angled just enough that the moment she neared, he turned with ease, one hand outstretched in welcome.

"My darling," he said, voice low but audible.

The word dropped into the room like a single snowflake in still water. No warmth. No affection. Just declaration.

She let him take her hand.

His fingers were cool. His grip light—but decisive. He brought her palm up and pressed a kiss to it, just beneath the emerald ring she wore like a brand. The room didn't gasp, but she felt the shift. Saw the angle of someone's head tilt, slow and deliberate, as if memorising the moment.

"You look," Tom murmured as he straightened, "ethereal."

She smiled faintly. "That's the idea."

He chuckled once, barely. Then, turning to the room in one smooth pivot, he let her hand rest against his forearm. "Shall we?"

He led her a few paces forward. She didn't resist.

They moved like two dancers who had practiced the same waltz a hundred times—gliding between groups, never lingering too long, never stopping entirely. He made subtle introductions where needed. She nodded where expected. Nothing more.

Regulus caught her eye eventually.

His expression didn't change. Not really. But she saw the flicker. The way his mouth pressed tight. The way his gaze slid—first to her, then to Tom, then back again. He didn't approach. But he didn't look away.

That was enough.

Tom turned slightly at her side. "Breathe," he murmured. "They're only people."

"People with daggers for tongues."

"Exactly." He smiled, slow and serene. "Let them sharpen themselves on you."

They stopped near Lucius and Narcissa.

Lucius bowed his head with exaggerated formality. "Lady Gaunt," he said, tone dry but playful.

"Lord Malfoy," she returned, matching him perfectly.

Narcissa rose and kissed her once on each cheek. Her perfume was light—jasmine and something sharper beneath. "You're late," she murmured under her breath. "It was very effective."

Anastasia gave a whisper of a smile. "I thought so."

Behind them, conversation resumed. Slow. Calculated. Every voice a weapon in silk.

Tom excused himself with a brush of his fingers to her elbow—just enough to signal, not enough to possess. He crossed toward the Rosiers with the calm of a man strolling through his garden.

Lucius leaned in slightly. "He's put on a show," he said, eyes flicking after Tom.

"He always does," Anastasia replied.

"You're the headliner, you know."

She didn't answer Lucius. Her gaze had already slid past him—across the room, toward the far side of the drawing room, where the Black family stood in quiet formation.

Regulus was beside them, just as she expected. Stiff-backed and unsmiling, hands folded behind him, dressed in pressed formal black that made him look like a miniature version of Orion. His tie had been fastened too tightly, and there was a faint line of irritation at the corner of his mouth that told her he hadn't picked the outfit himself.